


the home fires

by encroix



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Movie(s), Temporary Character Death, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/encroix/pseuds/encroix
Summary: "This is your time," she says. "Now. Here. Nothing, no machine, no person, can tell you how you will use it."Living a human life is full of stops and starts, beginnings and endings. It is a lesson Diana comes to learn well. (post-movie fix-it.)





	the home fires

**Author's Note:**

> I am super new to Wonder Woman (the overall canon), so most of this is built off of movie verse. There are a few details culled in here from the comics, but it is very, very light.
> 
> Strongly influenced by LANDSCAPE WITH BLACK COATS IN SNOW by Richard Siken, particularly for these lines:
> 
> _We invented a fence in the_  
>  _middle of the snow so we could meet at the fence and whisper._  
>  _Clemency at the fence. These small repeated revelations_  
>   
>  _stabilize something. Faith in snow, bravery in snow. A daily_  
>  _maintenance._

* * *

What Diana knows of death is this—the absence, the flat taste of it on the tongue, the vision of pyres consuming bodies as spirits charge forward into eternal valor. Diana knows of Amazonian death, of the death of warriors and queens. She knows nothing of the death of men.

When men die, there are things. Boxes and boxes, packed up, sealed, sent here, sent there, to be rooted through and looked after, looked through and discarded. The things that used to be worn, used to be kept. The meaningful things, the meaningless things. The men, if possible, are buried, their bones set inside another box and dropped into the earth for keeping. If impossible, there is still the question of these boxes. She sees it in the trenches: men, clinging to the tags of fallen soldiers, holding onto the last vestiges of a life with everything that they have. 

In her hands, a watch. Stopped. A final gift, the glass still intact and cool against the skin of her fingers, even if the noise of it has gone away. Sammy and Charlie take a look at it, murmur something about the fire, the battle, but Diana thinks these machines must bear their own burdens, grief among them. To be carried so close to someone’s heart, to listen to the noise of a life and keep its order—she can only imagine the weight of such a task. This is a thing she too must keep.

She tries to recall his voice explaining it to her. Time, the passing click of the small parts of the machine, the openness of life, divided. That is what men are good at, Diana thinks. Vivisection. Division. Time, broken into smaller and smaller parts, into different tasks to be done only at certain times, only when certain bells chime. Lives, broken down into collections of items upon items, to be looked through and read, to build a memory of a person who no longer stands. Even their fighting, she thinks. Never clean, never a quick shot, but the bitterness of blood and bodies being torn apart, piece by piece.

She has learned of that too. The ammunition that splinters when it enters the body, that breaks the vessels and the bones to leave men screaming for death. There is no wholeness to be found among them. Only the broken, seeking a chance to be made complete again, however briefly.

And now she is here among them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her mother, whispering a warning, tears falling hot from her cheeks: _if you leave us, we may never see you again. your immortality… forfeit._

 

 

 

 

_who would i be…if i stayed?_

 

 

 

 

She is Diana, princess of Themyscira, her mother’s daughter, but what she learns of herself is that there is a new self to learn. That she is more than just Amazon, more than just her title. Humanity sees her and does what they always do: divide her into new parts, capture her in small moments, look at her as if she has already passed. 

They give her new names, which stand separate from the truths she knows about herself.

 

She is Diana, Princess of Themyscira.

She is her mother’s daughter.

She is Wonder Woman. A woman to be wondered at, a woman of speculation and superior strength.

She is one among mankind.

 

He called her Diana Prince. She wears the name. 

There is a poem that speaks of names and flowers, of truths that can only be revealed by speaking them aloud. Diana Prince is a kind of truth. Steve Trevor, she supposes, another kind. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Etta sends the boxes to her office. The letter that comes with them is blotched in its ink, uncharacteristically messy from a woman who prides herself on her neatness. 

“Shouldn’t these go to his family?” she asked, once.

A shadow passing over a pale face. “No,” Etta said. As simple as that.

There is nothing to bury, so instead there are things. She goes through the boxes as slowly as possible, delicately taking each object into her hands to review and appraise. In her head, time returns to how she has always known it: the past reaching forward to take her hand, the future whispering of a time when he would have shown her these things himself. A photo of a new recruit, the hair newly shorn for training. A set of medals. Baseball cards. Ticket stubs. Paper and ink, and old clothing.

When she opens a box, sometimes she can smell him, lingering for a moment in these things that once carried him, shaped him, curved around the edges of his life. Sometimes the grief overtakes her then, her breath tightening in her chest as she cries, recalling the sight of his face on the battlefield, the taste of his mouth blending with the taste of fresh fallen snow, the touch of his hand. It isn’t fair, she knows, but she hasn’t been trained to expect fairness.

Life is its own battle. She has been taught that, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a posthumous award, granted for valor and bravery. It goes, instead, to his secretaries for keeping. The men who hand it over don’t even look them in the eyes.

Valor, Diana thinks. Bravery.

Etta leaves it with her, a dull bronze star attached to a swatch of blood red fabric. “He’d want you to have it,” she says.

“Thank you,” Diana says.

Etta gives a dignified sniff and turns away to hide her tears.

Diana sets a hand on her shoulder and gives the lightest of squeezes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She dreams of him that night, half his face bloodied, the skin peeling away from the flesh, his hands still. And still she reaches for him.

 _i’m always here for you, diana_ , he says. 

And her chest tightens because she knows that isn’t true, though it should be. There are spaces in this world he has left behind, with Etta, with Sammy and the others, with her, and how can he say that he will be here when all that she has of him are dead things? The watch and the baseball cards and the last of his handwriting on slips of paper?

 _you should have let me do it,_ she says.

He stretches his hand forward, as if to take hers, and she closes her eyes, exhaling on a shudder.

 _angel_ , he says to himself.

 _diana,_ he says.

 _you should have let me_ , she says. _what you did in the plane…it didn’t have to be that way. i could have…_

 _you had your battles to fight_ , he says, _and i chose to do something_. _i_ had _to_. 

In the dream, he takes her into his arms, his body as warm as she remembers. His mouth settles into the crook of her shoulder, murmuring quiet scraps of a song she has never heard him sing.

 _it didn’t have to be this way_ , she says.

He pecks a quick kiss against her mouth. _maybe next time._

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wakes up shaking, the sheets kicked into a tangle around her legs.

Outside, the city is noisy with passing sirens and drunken chatter.

She checks the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She begins again.

Ares is dead, and the war is over, and life, as she never knew it, moves forward. It begins slowly, the creak of rusted wheels learning the pace again, but she watches the people around her and tries to learn. Newspapers, breakfast, dancing, love, love, love, children, and work. She misses her mother more days than she can count. London town is rainy and gray, misty and damp most days, but she carves a place for herself. With Etta, with the others. Other people move through the world with quiet purpose, and she can do the same. 

Everything is peaceful enough.

(There is something unsettled in her heart, but she pushes it down, she pushes it down.)

Still, there is love. 

In springtime, couples kiss on the street. Sometimes she catches them coming out of the courthouse, pairs filing out of the office beaming at each other, holding hands, linking arms, kissing, embracing, celebrating the beginning of a new life. Together. The war is over now, after all, and there are small gifts to be grateful for, small joys to find at the start of each new day.

In her apartment building, a couple moves in with a young baby. It screams in the night, screams in the morning, announces its life at every chance it gets. Diana loves the strength of its voice, the small fingers of the tiny hand curled into a fist, the wide eyes following every new movement. She wants it to grow in a world without war, to learn how to love without carrying any hatred in itself. She wants it to be better.

She learns to be better, too. There are bills to be paid—how funny now, to think of the price for being alive, to need money when time is the thing running out—and things to manage, accounts to balance, so Etta helps. 

“Don’t take less than £10 a week,” Etta commands, and Diana nods, willing her fingers to learn the positions of the keys. For secretarial positions, secretaries need to learn how to type, and she is learning. “They’ll walk all over you if you let them.”

Diana smiles. “I won’t let them.”

“If he could just see us now, eh?” Etta says, punctuating it with a quiet laugh. It’s full of warmth and fondness, but Diana can see the touch of sadness still pushing through.

“Yes,” Diana says. “If he could.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once a month, she takes herself to breakfast in the city, alone with the morning’s newspapers. She sets them down on the other side of the table, hearing the quiet rumble of his chest as the pages rustle against themselves. A misplaced memory, but one she welcomes nonetheless.

Time seems to pass more slowly with a cup of coffee and the constant clink and chatter of a bustling restaurant, and she sits back against her chair and closes her eyes, determined to feel it—every slipping second of each minute, the way time floats carelessly on.

She can see the shape of his grin, hear the noise of his elbows leaning against the tabletop as he inches nearer. 

 _you’re going to get syrup all over yourself_ , she would have said, with a smile. The papers would have crumpled, perhaps ripped under the force of his body, as he leaned in to kiss her. His mouth would have been sweet around all that bitterness, roasted coffee beans and burnt toast, and she wouldn’t have cared for the taste of anything else.

The food would have grown cold, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

 _i told you,_ he would have said. _breakfast makes the world go ‘round_.

 _that is_ not _what you said_. 

 _all right_ , he would have said, turning a page of the newspaper for show. _that’s what you get for eating breakfast with a liar, a thief, and a smuggler._

 _no,_ she would have said. _not anymore. you are a good man._

He would have flashed a smile. _eh, maybe._

 _well,_ she would have answered, _you would never have lied to_ me _._

And then, the shy smile. The small one he saves for the times when she surprises him, when she reminds him of who he would like to be. _you got me there._

 

 

 

 

 

It begins, again. 

 

 

 

 

 

The war of mankind is always moving, Diana learns, as much in their hearts as it is outside of it. Wars stop and start, stop and start, stop and start, moving just as men do in the world, looking for purpose, for victory, for light.

 _the war to end all wars_ , they called the first one.

The second one comes to rip out its tongue, to spill rivers of blood in the streets again.

The men come marching in phalanxes, guns strapped to their sides, knocking against their bony legs. Cities are starved, burned. The thunder of cannons firing returns to drown out the rhythm of daily life. 

She fights, but it is not enough. None of it is enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The war runs on, and she is here for all of it. Week after week from front to front, hour after hour, sleeping as little as she can manage.

The boys watch her with a mixture of hope and fear in their eyes, desperate for any change in their prospects. There are fewer trenches. Fewer gas bombs. There are still scared boys.

She summons her strength from the gods, begs for it, for a chance to keep going without stopping. Not until the war has stopped. Not until it’s all over. Not until they choose to destroy Ares’ legacy for themselves, in their own hearts. In their own minds. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(and singing, singing, echoing through the empty spaces, through the open graves and the ruined towns

 _le jour_ _de gloire est arrivé)_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He holds her together when she breaks. The firebombs have been falling nonstop, the smoke thick in the air, and her body is weary. Her soul, weary. Ares has been killed, and still, they do this to each other. They hunt for sport, feeding the darkest part of themselves, letting it do as it pleases. Her body aches, perhaps from the smoke, perhaps from the wounds of the latest campaign, perhaps from her body trying to contain its rage from spilling over.

 _diana,_ Antiope would scold, _you are too exhausted to be thinking clearly. wisely. a great warrior knows when she needs to seek respite, to recover her strength. or she will face a quick death._

She thinks of Themiscyra, its white beaches and crisp blue waters, warm and soft as her mother’s touch. She thinks of going home, and feels the first jagged shard of exhaustion cut through her.

 _diana,_ her mother said once, _there are many things you do not know_. 

She knows now. How foolish, how foolish.

His hand spans her neck, rising to cup her cheek, his palm solid and reassuring in its warmth. _hey_ , he says, _hey, hey, hey_.

Her body shakes as she stands, jerking away from his reach, from the shadow of him. “Gods,” she hisses. “Stop this. Stop this.”

 _diana_ , he says. 

“Stop,” she whispers, trembling. The day has been long, children’s scorched and wasted bodies lying in the dirty roads, and she cannot take this. Not the sight of him, the feel of him. Not now. She has reminded herself of his absence every day that he is gone, reminded herself that his voice can no longer reach her, that she has seen him burned into nothing in the sky and buried what little of him she has. The watch, no longer ticking, still kept with her other gifts from home.

 _you can’t do this alone_ , he says. _you’re doing what you can. all that you can. you need to rest._

“I can’t rest,” she snaps. “It’s not enough. None of it is enough. And it is my duty to stop them. My duty. I _must_. I _will_.”

_it takes more than one person to win a war. you know that as well as i do._

His hands tangle in the ends of her hair, brushing soothingly across her back. The warm puff of his breath touches the side of her neck and she shivers. 

“You aren’t here,” she says. Her voice strikes for matter of fact, and lands somewhere short of a whispered confession. “You’re a ghost.”

A lifetime ago, and she can still hear Charlie’s soft voice cut through the crackle of fire. 

“You’re my ghost.”

He clears his throat, the toe of his boot scuffing against the dirt softly. _diana, you can’t fix the war overnight. no one can. not even you. and after everything you’ve seen, you have to know that you are doing everything you can._

“Not everything,” she says. “Not everything. Or the war would stop.”

 _diana,_ he says. _i have seen what you can do. i know what you’re capable of. but war is bigger than any one person and you…_

“You should be here,” she interrupts, the statement sharp and crisp. It is a voice she has rarely heard, angry and clipped. Tired. “I could have…used you.” 

 _i’m sorry_ , he says, _that i couldn’t be there, fighting alongside you._

He reaches for her, his thumb pressing lightly against the juncture of her neck and shoulder, easing the hard knot of muscle there. She sighs, leaning slightly into his touch. So real, she thinks, that she can almost feel the callouses of his knuckles, the roughness of his hands. 

 _but i am here_ , he whispers, reverently. _i’m here, i’m here. for you, i’m here._

She remembers a night, years ago now, when his body had been hot under hers, when his mouth and his hands reached for her endlessly. The bow of his mouth curving slick and sweet around hers, his strong arms bracing against her back, trailing down the length of her spine. Outside, there had been snow falling over the world, burying them in a brief moment of silence, of respite. His mouth had been hungry, desperate, and everywhere at once, moving to cover her breasts, driving to taste between her thighs, until she could no longer speak, until every thought, every word, distilled down to her own desire.

And the snow kept falling.

She remembers how he felt buried inside of her, how every breath he took seemed to resonate low in her belly as a frisson of heat. His chest was all muscle beneath her hands, solid and warm, as she rode him, forcing herself to take her time, to feel every inch of him sliding inside of her. His body tense with desire and he had reached for her, his arms gripping her hips as he rocked urgently beneath her, the muscles in his neck straining as he tried to urge her to move faster. 

And when he gasped her name—the pitch of it higher than she expected, the sight of his dark eyes in the dim light like the first strike of light in a cavern of black.

She remembers savoring the taste of his neck as she bit at his skin, marking him.

His laugh—that, too, she remembers—low and wry as he met her for a thrust, pressing his hips up flush against hers. And his grin, lupine and enormous, when she grew close, her head falling back with a whimpered moan as she drove herself to finishing, his hands settling against her back as she came, anchoring them together as a single body, a single purpose.

Years ago, she tells herself.

Not last night. Not a month, nor a year, but years, pooling into ages like snowflakes building into a drift. Time among men moves quickly, and she must force herself to feel it, no matter how little it affects her.

She takes a step away from him, squaring her shoulders. “My duty is to stop this war,” she says. “To stop _all_ _war_. I cannot keep…seeing you. This—this—can’t.”

She can still feel the warmth of his hands as she steps out of her tent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outside, the stars are barely showing through a gray haze of clouds, veiled from her glance. She exhales, stretching her arms out wide in a gesture to the gods, feeling the chill of the air wash over her. The answers are there, as they have always been. She remembers the wrinkled hands of the wizened older women at home, their foreheads creased as they read her fate out of the stars.

Her duty has been written, foretold. Everything else is a matter of execution. 

Her hands fall to her hips as she carefully sucks in one slow breath. Then another. She breathes, counts, tries to steady herself the way that she has been trained, but she can still feel the shadow of his hands ghost over her skin.

There has to be an answer, she thinks. The gods, the gods—they did nothing without reason, without their own purposes. They saw much more clearly, much farther, than she can. If they knew he would be taken from her, if she was meant to forge this path alone, she must trust in their wisdom, their foresight, their vision.

Inside her chest, the muscle of her heart aches with the weight of too many sights, too many things carried. Like the soldiers whose backs sag beneath the packs they tote for miles upon miles, gun upon canteen upon supplies. Surviving by the edge of a knife.

An owl flutters its wings in the distance, its hoot feeble and resonant in the quiet.

She shakes her head. There are no owls here anymore. It was a tent flap, perhaps, falling shut with someone’s movement. Nothing more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_has it been so long, amazon, that you forget the patrons?_

 

_have you lost your way?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Young Diana, lying awake at night and praying to the dead in the hopes that they might still hear her. Praying to begin her training, speaking to the gray-eyed, to the clear-headed, to the wisest and most venerable, to the other god of war, the virtuous, the holy:

_please, athena, please_

_if you are still there_

_if you can still listen_

 

_hear me_

_please_ )

 

 

 

 

 

 

_has it been so long that you can no longer hear what we are telling you?_

 

 

 

 

 

That night, she dreams. It is a wall—made of dull red brick, shielding her from the noise of the outside world. She sits with her feet poking through the space of an open window, resting against the slatted fire escape, feeling the slight breeze of the wind, filtered through the sharp angles of buildings. There is the noise of children laughing and, in the distance, sirens.

But all she hears is the pluck of an instrument.

 _my father, before he left, taught me how to play_.

She can hear the rustle of his fingers as they tease at the strings, like the quiet of a butterfly’s wings touching. The music comes intermittently at first as he begins to find the melody, hidden beneath years of forgetting, of trying to forget. 

His voice, hesitant and low, begins to hum along with the melody before slipping into halting French.

“Is this where you grew up?” she says.

She can feel his nod without seeing it. Outside, other red-bricked buildings all face the same direction, all peer out into greater shadow and dark. Where are the open beaches and plains of her island, the rippling beams of sun playing down through trees and grasses to warm the back of one’s neck? Where do the children go? What can they learn here, stuck in their small boxes, seeing the world through small panes of glass?

 _it’s better than it looks, trust me_.

She can’t see that far out past the buildings, but she doesn’t believe him. “Don’t stop singing,” she says.

He chuckles, and she can hear it rumbling through his chest. The guitar begins again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She remembers the song as a lament, warbling tinny and soft through staticky radios. She remembers a dance in the middle of the town square, a flattening beer left to sit in its glass, forgotten. 

It wasn’t the song, but the song doesn’t really matter.

All that matters is the memory of him, his hands in hers, his body hovering so close to hers that she felt dizzy with his presence. 

_chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie_

His voice, soft at the edges, lingers on a note too long, falls off the beat.

She smiles at his irritated grunt.

 _you try it then_ , he says.

“I don’t know how to play,” she says.

There’s a long pause. _i guess i’ll just have to teach you then. one day._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was another story. 

At her mother’s knee, in her mother’s bedroom, fragrant with honeysuckle and sea air, she remembers another man singing. Another man, playing at an instrument. The lyre, golden, its music sweet, carried on the air like the smell of flowers.

Another man, lost.

Her mother’s embrace was warm, the book’s bindings soft from too frequent handling. The story was familiar, the images drawn in warm bronze and gold, telling the story of a man who challenged a god with the power of his own belief.

The man, young, dark-haired, determined, set out for the Underworld to reclaim what had once been his. The man, playing desperately at a song to try to save the one person in the world he would risk death and divine punishment for. Who would be so bold? Who would be so foolish?

And Diana, leaning her chin against her mother’s knee, eyes wide and peering down at the images, listening to the old songs of Orpheus and his Eurydice. He who would have walked down where all other souls feared to tread, feared to be trapped, strong in his belief of his own power in a realm where men had none. He who would have done it for love alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_has it been so long that you no longer understand us?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the rubble of the city, Diana digs the soles of her boots hard against the stone, her eyes narrowed in search of any movement. Decades later, and not much, if anything, has seemed to change. The raids are coming near daily, the ground trembling with the threat of danger at any time. 

A paper flyer, still stuck to a demolished piece of wall, flaps at her like a tattered flag.

_keep calm and_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Etta, leaning in the doorway of her apartment, folds her hands together, managing only a weak smile. “We’ve gotten used to it well enough,” she says at Diana’s dour expression. “Keep calm and carry on, stiff upper lip, and, well, you know. How is the front?”

Diana hums, and they indulge in a brief memory of a different time. “I wish I could say that it was different,” she says. “I thought I had seen what man was capable of, but this is worse.”

Etta’s smile remains fixed in place, even as the corners of her mouth tremble. “You’ve done it before, and you can do it again,” she says. “I know you, Diana.”

Diana jumps to her feet as the kettle whistles, walking to the kitchen to lift it from the heat.

“Diana,” Etta exclaims. “Please! You’re a guest!”

“Please yourself,” Diana says, pouring the water into the waiting teapot. “How are the children?”

Etta gives a dramatic sigh. “They don’t come around to visit as much,” she says, “but that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

“On Themyscira,” Diana says, setting the kettle in the sink. “We do not abandon our elders. They live with us, among us, for as long as they wish.”

Etta’s laugh is just as she remembers, round and ringing, full of life. “From what you’ve told me, it doesn’t seem like space would be a problem for you. Wouldn’t that be a lark to try it in this place,” Etta says. “I don’t think they’d all fit.”

“Don’t you miss them?” Diana says.

“Of course,” Etta says, “but they’ve got their own lives to tend to, their own children. They’re standing on their own, just as you once did.”

Diana slips her hand into her coat pocket, tracing the edge of the watch cover out of habit. Etta catches her, her eyes lighting up. 

“Is that…?” Etta whispers.

With a shy smile, Diana fishes it out of the pocket and sets it in Etta’s palm. Over the years, the metal has worn smooth from its travels alongside her, but she takes care to guard it, as much as she can. Etta weighs it in her hand, carefully popping open the cover to glance at the watch, the hands still positioned in the same place as they always were.

“I suppose I thought I would get used to it,” she whispers, “Seeing it after all these years, knowing that he’s been gone for as long as he has. But there’s some part of me that expects to hear this still ticking, to hear him rushing around the corner yelling for me.”

“Do you hear him, too?” Diana asks.

Etta wrinkles her brow, her face still turned towards the watch. “Hear him?” she repeats, quietly.

“Sometimes I…see him,” Diana says. “Not often, but sometimes.”

“Yes,” Etta says, closing the watch and returning it. “I see what you mean.”

Their fingers brush as Diana takes the watch, tucking it back inside her jacket pocket.

“I suppose I do,” Etta says. “Still…feel him about from time to time. But I…”

An air raid siren cuts through the silence, shrill and demanding. They stand there facing each other, still as reeds before the raking touch of a wind.

“Times like these,” Etta says. “It’s hard not to think about him.”

Diana doesn’t answer.

Etta throws her arms around her in a brief embrace, her face as sober as ever despite the slight shine of tears in her eyes.

“I think if he were here, he would love to see you fighting like this,” Etta says. “I think he liked knowing that you were out there in the world. That there were even people like you at all. Good people, fighting for what they believed in.”

“You are good people,” Diana says.

“Not like you,” Etta replies.

Diana takes her hand. “You guarded the sword of Athena. You have fought alongside me, just as my sisters did.”

The siren echoes through the small house.

“I have to go,” Diana says.

Etta nods. “Please…be careful. I don’t think I could…bear it, if you…”

“Yes,” Diana says, embracing her. “And you, too.” 

“I’ve lived through the Germans once, haven’t I?” Etta mutters with a weak smile. “I can bloody well do it again.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The weapons have grown quicker, better at the art of killing, better at the amount of destruction they can level. She has run through the fields of France, has felt the tremor of mines lurking just beneath the soil, has seen men dart across them like spring hares into the jagged teeth of bear traps. Their bodies, bursting like blisters into bone and blood and shreds of fabric. 

Diana watches it all, bears witness to the horrors that humanity gorges itself on. She charges at bombs, at gunfire, throws her body between the innocent and all the rest of it, hoping that it will be enough.

Some days, she is picking shrapnel out of her body with a set of rusty tweezers, peering at the wetness of her blood against their weapons. Some days she feels she is still just a child standing on the shores of Themyscira, staring at the sky and wondering.

Some days, it feels like she is just waiting for it all to heal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve dangles his feet against the edge of the fire they’ve lit. The German cannons are rumbling in the distance, and she cannot sleep. She’s been traveling with him for several days now, and she still isn’t used to the way he looks at her. Secretively, furtively, out of the corner of his eyes when he thinks she isn’t paying attention.

He is just as curious as she was (is) about his world when she first landed, she thinks. As curious as she is about what he’s done, what he’s seen.

He doesn’t speak much about what he did before they met. Before he stole the journal and crashed in the sea by Themyscira. But she hears it in his voice—the guilt, the pain, the quiet admission of his own fault in what must be the war. But the war is no fault of anyone except Ares. He is the one who corrupts men’s hearts.

“Are you cold?” he says.

She shakes her head.

“The cannons?”

“It is not so loud on Themyscira,” she says. “Here, it has been so noisy all the time.” 

“You’re not a big fan of the city, I gather,” he says, with a small smile.

She shrugs one shoulder, and he turns his gaze back to the fire. The others are sleeping or pretending to, and the two of them inch nearer to each other, comfortable in their silence.

A long pause stretches between them.

“Is that where you would live?” she asks. “The city?”

“After the war?”

She nods.

He clears his throat. “I guess I never really thought about it,” he says. “I have an apartment there now. Small place, kind of dirty, but I like it. Not really a place for a man to have a family, though.”

“Is that what you would do?” she says. “Have a family?”

He leans back against his hands, glancing up at the sky. His breath clouds in the air as he thinks. “I mean,” he begins, carefully. “I don’t think about it much. It’s hard to… in a place like this.”

She tilts her head, studying him out of the corner of her eye. She can see him cradling an infant in his arms, his hair touched by sun as he peers down at the small face.

“What made you come?” she says.

He turns and meets her gaze, his eyes soft in the light. “I wanted to fight.” He glances back to the fire, the sparks and embers spitting up into the night. “The kind of person I was before…”

She keeps her eyes on his face, examines his profile in the dim light.

“It’s like I told you,” he says. “I tried doing nothing.”

“So you came to fight.”

“To fight,” he agrees. “To fight for _something_. I don’t know. Something…better…maybe. Better than this, anyway. And…I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I don’t know if this is it. We do the best that we can, we try, but every day, I see people hurt, I see people die, and I don’t know if what I do is helping anyone.”

She leans close, her shoulder brushing his as she squeezes his hand. “You are here,” she says, emphatically. “You are _fighting_. For these people. It’s not nothing.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Another pause stretches between them. His voice, when he breaks the silence, is quiet. “Do you think war can make good men?”

She turns to look at him, and his eyes flick back towards the ground, his head slightly bowed. She thinks of touching his face, of making him look at her. She thinks of the weight that he must carry, the burdens he refuses to speak of.

“I don’t think war has anything good,” she says, simply. “It is…destruction. Nothing else.”

When he looks up at her, she sees the crisp blue of his eyes. Like the sea, she thinks. Like home. 

He swallows again, but he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t know what you did before,” she says, “but whatever it is, it doesn’t change what you are doing now. What you are trying to do now.”

He leans his weight back against her shoulder.

“This is your time,” she says. “Now. Here. Nothing, no machine, no person, can tell you how you will use it.”

His hand squeezes hers. “Diana,” he whispers.

She glances up at him with a silent nod. His lips part just slightly, his jaw cast in shadow by the flickering light of the fire.

There is the heavy step of a boot in the distance, a soft rustle of grasses. She pulls a knife from her boot. “Wait here,” she says.

His eyes follow her as she tracks out into the brush.

 

 

 

 

 

One night, amid the noise of cannons and gunfire in the distance, she walks the streets of Paris. It’s quiet, the buildings all shuttered for fear of attack, fear of soldiers, for fear alone. The old stones of the street are laid out in neat rows, and she tracks the lines as she walks. There are store awnings and window shutters that must have once been brightly colored before they were scored with bullet holes and dirt. There are bakery windows that once must have been intact. Where people would have sat outside in the street and watched the world pass them by, content to just sit.

In another life, maybe they would have met outside a place like that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time she visits Paris, it’s with Sammy, Chief, and Charlie. Their pockets have been newly filled with funds—“Don’t ask,” Charlie hums, grinning—and they’re joyous and exuberant, happy to be living in a life where a war has ended. Happy to celebrate, despite their losses. 

“ _Mademoiselle_ ,” Sameer rattles off in his melodic French, “I cannot wait to show you around the sights of the city. A one-of-a-kind place that you can only visit with those you love.”

She laughs, and lets him talk the rest of the way, Chief and Charlie following close behind. They buy her breads and pastries, French delicacies and ice cream, and she eats until she feels like she can’t even look at anything else. Charlie sings, and the Chief tells her the stories of his people at home, and they roll through the city, bathed in its light and its warmth, reminding themselves of the good that life can be.

Behind them, a shadow falls. A shadow follows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

At a bar in Montparnasse, Sammy gets them all their own bottles and they stand outside and toast each other and drink and drink and drink. The time passes by, the night slipping into the inky midnight blue of dusk as they grow quiet, content to just sit among friends and watch the stars.

Charlie is the first one who raises his bottle. “To Steven,” he says. “Good man.”

They clink their bottles by the base, and all take a thoughtful drink. “To Steve,” they echo in chorus.

That night, once the boys have fallen asleep, Diana takes to the streets, walking through the empty pathways, seeing the houses all shuttered with dark. There are still people littered here and there on the streets, lit by alcohol, laughing, embracing, celebrating.

She cuts a path through an alleyway and finds a cemetery, the fresh gravestones lined straight as teeth. She shivers on an exhale and walks through, feeling the weight of mourning and grief touch her shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He could have been there with all of them, leaning back in one of the small chairs, shouting orders at the waitress in French while she and Sammy shared judgmental glances. A cigarette or two, shared among friends at an open-air table. 

He could have handed her a dozen macarons, smiled at her as she bit into each one to taste them.

He could have waken her each morning with the weight of his body, the sheets twisted around his body as it met hers.

 _sammy’s going to tell you he knows all the best places_ , he would have mumbled around a bite of croissant. _but that’s just because he doesn’t know about the places_ i’m _going to take you_.

The bitter taste of coffee, and the sweetness of his mouth. The light in his eyes when they reached the top of the Sacre Coeur to look out at the beauty of the city and its paths, its buildings, his hand warm against the small of her back. His mouth brushing feather-light against her neck, against her temple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She shakes her head as if to clear it.

The noise of guns will come with the rising sun. 

The light will splinter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His shadow walks beside her, the silhouette of his hand hovering over the silhouette of hers, splayed oblong in the street.

She keeps her head fixed to the road.

He’s silent this time, but she can feel his eyes flicking over to look at her every so often. His presence is weighted with concern, with worry, and she wants to shake him off, to shove at his shoulders and push him away like she had done once before.

 _if you want me to go_ , he says, _i’ll go. say the word._

She walks on, silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diana has learned that men keep their secrets close to the chest, afraid to show fear, to show weakness, to show anything other than brute force. Strange creatures they are, she thinks. But in the movies, they reveal themselves.

A little shadow and flickering light in the darkness, and they sit, rapt, watching forms of themselves say the things they would not breathe aloud.

 _we’ll always have paris_ , the man on screen promises.

She watches the movie with Etta, their bodies packed in with dozens upon dozens of others. 

His face is nearly too large for the screen, stretched wide, contorting the line of his jaw, the cut of his lip, until all she can see is the outline of his mouth as he speaks. The hall is full of bodies, fit tightly against one another like puzzle pieces, hoping to glimpse something that isn’t waiting for them outside, in the newspapers, in their memories.

The flurry of bullets in a war.

A man saying goodbye.

Those left behind glancing up at the skies, hoping for safe passage and a new start.

_we’ll always have paris._

Beside her, Etta is shaking with sobs, a handkerchief pressed up against her face. These are the secrets left they can share, black and white to fill the empty space trapped between the two of them. A love story to stand in for everything they could not bring themselves to talk about.

_we didn’t have it._

_we lost it._

Her eyes are wide, unblinking, taking it all in.

A boxy plane buzzes like a housefly as it begins to disappear into the horizon. A man on the ground watches, stone-faced. 

The war goes on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the middle of the night, something rustles inside her tent.

She springs to her feet, her eyes wide as she scans the darkness, knife already in hand. Her eyes are sharp, her body taut like the wire of a bow, alert and ready. 

Nothing moves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chief says, “I know you see him sometimes.” 

She glances up from feeding the fire, her jaw set into silence, her face betraying nothing. His glance is knowing, canny, seeing through her without saying another word. She has seen him through the years, and witnessed his face remain the same as ever. Still, stoic, _young_. Another old friend, fighting with her.

She kicks at the dirt, peering past him at the trail they have yet to walk. “We have a lot of ground to cover,” she says.

“I see ghosts, too,” he says. “They come, you know? Especially in places like this. With things like this.”

“Not for my people,” she says. “The ones we have lost, they travel on to the fields. They rest.”

He hums, fingering the edge of his jacket. “So why do you think you see him?”

She runs a hand through her hair, checking the weapons in her belt. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know why.”

“I see him, too,” he says.

“And what do you say to him?” she says. “When you see him?”

The Chief sighs, his coat rustling as he widens his stride to meet her. “I think the ghosts are ghosts,” he says. “And you have to pay them respect, same as the other spirits. So I let him walk with me and I listen. After everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve seen and fought, there are some things I still can’t understand. But I think he’s getting used to it.”

She hums softly in answer. “And does he tell you anything?”

A smile ghosts over the Chief’s face, hidden by the brim of his hat. “He tells me about you, mostly,” he says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another moment passes.

A quiet rustle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It hides at the very canopy of her tent, its feet clutching onto one of the metal rods reinforcing the canvas.

Its down is white, its feathers rustling as it paces back and forth. Even as it moves, the dark eyes are fixed, watching her.

“Gods,” she murmurs, bowing her head.

The bird extends its wings slowly with a soft coo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She had always prayed for Athena to visit her as a child, to bless her with wisdom and power, with the knowledge to fight her battles and win them. She has always believed the gods were never yet dead.

She has not prayed as much as she should have done.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The dove tucks its beak against its feathers, and coos again.

Diana kneels.

 _so you remember_ , the goddess says.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I remember.” 

 _my sister thinks highly of you_ , the goddess says. _she has spoken to us of you for many days._

“Of me?” she says.

 _you freed us from ares_ , the goddess says. _out of the ash…_

“It is our duty,” Diana answers. “As Amazons.”

_but you are not an amazon, are you? god-killer?_

She does not answer.

_my sister has asked us to bring you a gift. she believes you deserve the gratitude of the gods._

Diana does not dare to lift her head, but she moves despite herself. A lock of hair slips in front of her shoulder.

_it is a gift from all of us. for you, the god-killer. who have restored us to our olympus._

Diana can see the crane of her mother’s neck, her arms outstretched as she presses her chest up towards the sky. _to the gods, we give our thanks._

“Goddess,” she whispers. “I give you my thanks.”

 _you have not seen the gift_ , the goddess says, a note of humor in her voice _. remember what kind of giver my father was._

She exhales. “My thanks,” she repeats, “Goddess.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

He stands before her, his hands gripping her shoulders hard, trying desperately to think of the right words. She is covered in dirt and soot, her skin marred with cuts, and his mind blanks. He would have married this woman, he thinks, or, at least, taken the chance to ask her once. He would have spent days kissing her, would have counted every freckle, every scar, and blessed it with a kiss, a touch.

He would have taken his time showing her around London. Maybe even Paris, maybe New York, why not? The world would have been wide and waiting for them, after the war, after. He can hear the eighteen-year-old enlistees speaking through him, their eyes wide, their promises big as the sky as they whisper their goodbyes to their girlfriends, their fiancees, their wives. _it won’t be for long and when i get back, there will be a wedding and a house and a new life, waiting just for us. not for long, not for long, the war is almost over, and i’ll be safe, of course i will be, you think general pershing would just let me walk into a trap?_

The future is full for those who can dream it that way.

He doesn’t have the future.

What he has is this: a handful of seconds, a plane that needs to be taken out of commission in midair, six bullets loaded into the chambers of his gun, and her—the warm, strong mass of her body, all muscle and sinew and light, and the look in her eyes as she tries to understand him. He wants to tell her everything she has done for him, wants to tell her how she is his truth, his justice, how he will never be able to look at the world the same way again and it’s all because of her.

 _do you understand_ , he wants to say, _just what you’ve done to me?_

He squeezes her hand, pulling the watch from his pocket.

 _do you understand_ , he wants to say, pressing it into her hand, _do you understand just what i would give to have another minute with you?_

He looks at her, and feels the beginning of a laugh stick in his throat.

_do you understand what you’ve given me, diana, princess of themyscira?_

“I wish we had more time,” he says, and she tilts her head to look at him, the watch weighty in her palm.

She doesn’t understand.

His fingers curl around hers briefly, and he shudders on a breath.

The future ticks quietly away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When she calls his name, he pauses and feels the weight of everything he is, everything he ever was, bearing down in a single second.

_may i get what i want, may i get what i need, but may i never…_

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t look back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _you are being given a chance_ , the goddess says, _to retrieve what has been lost_. 

She glances up, and the dove is gone. In front of her stands a woman, as beautiful as the breaking light of day, luminous and fearsome.

 _we have asked this of my uncle_ , she says. _for you. for what you have done for us._

_will you take it?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

The plane is buzzing with idle noise, and he takes a breath, one after another, hoping to quiet his heart long enough so that he can do what he needs to. War is full of hard choices, he knows that, has learned that in everything that he’s done and seen since he decided to sign up with the good guys, but still.

Steve Trevor is a man, and men are scared. 

He cocks the hammer of the gun, his throat and body trembling. But he knows what he has to do. He knows why he came.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His life does not flash before his eyes.

Nothing flashes—there’s only dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Or, that’s not quite true: what flashes before his eyes is not the lived past, settled and done with, choices made and choices lived with, but, instead, the open future:

Wooden tables, cluttered with knickknacks and books, errant clothes carelessly discarded; a pair of slender legs resting against his lap; the sight of her smile in the warm light of a bedside lamp; her dark hair tickling at the bare skin of his chest.

Her face is there, greeting him everywhere, smiling at him from beneath the covers, resting peacefully in the morning sun, half-hidden behind a white ceramic cup, still steaming with hot coffee. He would have taken her out more, he thinks. He would have invited her to visit his mother. Bought her a chocolate soda just to see her face the first time she tasted it. Taken her to a baseball game just to have her hear the crack of the wood against the leather ball. Relished in showing her how to shoot pool, his body leaning over hers. There would have been newspapers to read, movies to watch. There would have been nights spent reading together, days spent without leaving the bed.

He allows himself the indulgence of a glimpse of a child, maybe—a girl, with dark hair and her sharp, wise eyes, running around. Light in his arms with a smile that sometimes reminds him of a calm, still sea, and always reminds him of her mother. 

A house full of laughter and her warmth. Her light. Light seeping out of every window, spilling onto every surface, covering everything in sight. 

Diana smiles, kissing him, her body clinging to his, and he feels himself at peace. He builds a home. He loves, and he loves, and he never wonders about what he deserves—

Because he doesn’t deserve her, and still, she is here. 

Still, she smiles. 

Still, she looks at him and stays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He gives a scoffing laugh, sniffing, and sucks in another deep breath.

 _let this war be over_ , he thinks, and the gun fires with a sharp pop of air.

_let this end._

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What you are promising…” she says.

 _diana,_ the goddess says. _a life for a life. what you have lost for the death of my brother, who defied us and spilled our blood._

Her voice trembles. “What you promise, can it be true?”

 _you know who i am_ , the goddess says. _i have heard your heart. i know it as well as i know the hearts of men. i know what you believe._

“And what do I do?”

 _you will go to my uncle’s realm_ , the goddess says. _he has promised to allow you access. once you are there, you will fall into his watch and outside of our protection. what he promises, he must keep. as he advises, you must heed. he may play many tricks, he may whisper the darkest secrets into your head and your heart, but what you do is up to you. what you choose to do is your choice alone. what happens is not the fault of the gods._

Diana sees a flash of anger in the goddess’s eyes and remembers Orpheus, the light touch of his fingers against the lyre. “Yes,” she says. “I understand.”

The goddess’s hands are ice cold against the skin of her shoulders.

_you know he hates to lose._

She nods. “I give thanks,” Diana says, “to you, to Athena.”

 _do not give thanks, god-killer_ , the goddess says, sinking back into her dove form, _until you know what you are walking away with. until you know if it is what you would deserve._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _diana_ , he hisses, _you can’t possibly think of doing this._

She looks past him, her body shaking with each errant breeze of the wind. She wishes for the comforting embrace of her mother, for the advice of wiser women than she. They would tell her what she needed to know.

He steps into the light, his arms folded over his chest. _this is a trap, and you know it. i know the stories, diana. the gods do not meddle in affairs without getting something out of it for themselves._

She shushes him, stepping back inside the small space of her tent. “If I have a chance,” she says. “To find you, to bring you back…if I did not take it, I would spend so much time wondering.”

 _you don’t need to bring me back, angel_ , he says, the epithet slipping. _i’m right here._

“If I can do it, let me. Let me give you more time. Let me fix it.”

 _diana, i love you_ , he says. _i_ love _you. there’s nothing to fix. you couldn’t have stopped the plane that night. not while ares was there. but i could do it. for you. for the war. for myself._

“I can save you,” she says.

 _stop_ , he says, reaching to take her hands. _you already did. even before we got to the front._

She scrubs at her eyes with her hands. “The gods,” she says. “They don’t give chances more than once. If I don’t take it, I will lose it—lose _you_ —forever.”

His hands cup her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks.

She takes a breath, glancing up at the canopy of the tent. She thinks of Antiope, and they both know what she is going to do.

“I am Diana of Themyscira,” she whispers to herself. “Daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons.” 

_you’re coming to get me, aren’t you?_

“Yes.”

His laugh is halfway to bitter. _i know better than to try to tell you anything._

“Good,” she says. “Then we’re agreed.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hades is not what she expects. He is a tall man, his dark hair grown long. His eyes are kind, even as he stands there studying her, his hands clasped together in front of him.

“You are she,” he says.

She nods, kneeling before him, her palms slamming hard against the ground once. 

His hand is a feather touch against her shoulder. “You are a guest in my house,” he says. “For today.”

“What would you ask of me?” she says.

“To steal one from me?” he says, his mouth curling.

She does not answer.

“Yes,” he says. “This gift is one my nieces have granted you, but it is mine to give. You can step past my gates and I will grant you the one you seek, but you will need to lead him out.” He smiles then, the curve of his lips a coy promise. “In the Underworld, there can be nothing hidden, only truth. What you see, what you hear, is nothing more than that. Do you understand?”

She nods.

“But there are conditions. You will not be permitted to speak to him, not there, not on the journey back. If you look back, even to check to see if he is behind you, you will lose him.” His eyes are hard slate, meeting hers as she begins to rise. “You cannot touch him. Nor any of the other spirits that linger in this place. If you do, he will be stripped from you and returned to his rightful place in my House. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says. “I understand.”

“And you still wish to go?” 

“Yes,” she says.

She hears the rattle of his keys as he carefully sorts through them. “Very well,” he says.

“I give thanks,” she whispers, “Polydegmon.”

A smile flickers over Hades’ face, a brief touch of warmth. The hinges creak as the old stone door heaves itself open. “Then go, Diana of Themyscira, daughter of the Amazons.”

She steps into the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Underworld, too, is not what she expects. Glass and chrome and gray stone, polished and shining and cold. The building is enormous, labyrinthine in its wide, empty passageways, lit only by dim incandescents. There are stone steps leading downward, corridors and corridors winding ever further into itself.

Faces peer at her from all sides, their skin pale and bloodless, their lips pursed, expressions vacant. The dead feel nothing, she has always known that. But to see their faces, staring mutely at her as she crosses down to retrieve him cuts her more than she expects. 

To think of him down here. 

To think of the other men she had known, had fought alongside, standing in these halls, wandering for the rest of eternity.

She prays she does not glimpse any of her sisters. She prays they are in the fields, laughing and basking in the warm light of the day.

“Are you afraid?” Hades says, from beside her.

“I did not imagine what it would be like to come down here,” she says. “To see them like this.”

“You wonder about those you’ve known,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You are not unlike them, the things you protect.”

“No,” she says. “Is it much further?”

“Nearly there,” he says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When they stop in the main hall, they lead him out to her, his face ashen and white, his gaze fixed to the floor. His eyelashes fan a dark line against the tops of his cheeks. He is still dressed as she remembers, as she has seen him a thousand times before.

“Take a good look,” Hades says, not unkindly. “Until you pass back through the gates, you will see no more of him if you are to succeed. And I hope you succeed.”

“I give thanks,” she says, kneeling again. 

“Turn your back, Amazon,” he says. “Walk as swiftly as Hermes would lead you. I will see you no further.”

She turns her back, and Hades crumbles into ash before her eyes, cascading like granules of sand to spill against the stone floor.

His voice lingers in the air. _walk._

 

 

 

 

 

 

She can feel him behind her the moment she begins to walk. Her steps are sure, but leaden, weighted down by the air of the Underworld that holds her, and she fights to keep her strides long as she begins to return the way she came. The lamps are lit, guiding her way back to the outside world. The faces that stare at her from either side are still as unrelenting in their gaze, their hands stretching out as if to reach for her.

 _diana,_ he breathes, and she exhales, moving as quickly as Hades will allow.

The faces press in from all sides, their eyes opaque and unseeing, their mouths hanging open, turned to the sight of her light, the taste of her life.

She moves up the first stairwell slowly, the air thick and suffocating around her, pressing in on her. Its vise grip is sharp, but she is a daughter of the Amazons, and she pushes on past the pain. There is light waiting for her on the other side, spilling across the line, ready to accept her into its arms again.

As she turns and crosses down the next network of corridors, she hears Steve’s sharp gasp. There’s the quiet whistling noise of blades slicing through the air before she hears his yell, a deep, guttural sound. “ _Diana!_ ” he howls, and the noise of blades slicing through flesh roars loud in her ears. She presses her hands over her head, hoping to muffle the noise, to drown him out. Her hands are trembling, desperate as she is to turn and fight alongside him, but she keeps her gaze forward.

There’s the crack of a gunshot, and he screams. Her name cracks on a pained scream in his voice, and she can see the shadow of his arms stretching forward as if to reach for her. She pushes on.

“Diana, _please_!” he howls. “God, please! Help me!”

She grits her teeth so hard her jaw tinges with pain, but she keeps walking. The corridors seem to stretch on endlessly. 

There is the noise of a blow landing, the bone crunching loudly behind her. Then another, and another. The boots landing on the ground are heavy. His feet beat an unsteady rhythm against the ground as he stumbles, and then, there is the dull noise of them dragging against the ground. Fear presses in against her chest, helplessness and doubt prying at her thoughts, and her hands clench at her sides, as if to will the thoughts away.

 _but if you could turn_ , a voice whispers, _you could fight for him. save_ his life.

“Diana!” he screams, and another heavy blow lands.

She bites down hard on her lip to keep from screaming his name, to keep herself from checking to see if he’s hurt, if he’s dying.

_are you going to let him suffer like this?_

_are you going to stand by and do nothing? you, princess of the amazons? are you going to let them kill him?_

“Diana!” he screams, the noise elongated, straining his voice.

She opens her mouth and sucks in a ragged gasp for the scream she would have instead. She tries to run, but her feet lock, trapped by the weight that hangs over the air. 

_what kind of warrior leaves a man behind to die?_

She ducks down another corridor, leaning her shoulder against the weight of the air, pushing forward. She can do this. She is close enough. She can feel it.

Behind her, Steve is silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The room lights up, flickering with sharp and unnatural light. It is the glint of gunfire, she realizes, exchanged between the trenches. 

She sees the silhouette of his back, dressed in a tattered uniform, a metal helmet positioned on his head. He reaches for a gun and stares out into the black. The gun rattles as it fires, shaking tremendously as it looses a scream of its own. The bullet shells land like the tinkle of wind chimes against the stone floor.

The lights move, aiming their beams up to reveal his targets. A small village on the outskirts of the German stronghold. There are families, clinging together, dirt smudged against the folds of their skirts, the creases of their pants. There are young children, weeping loudly against their mothers. The bullets spend themselves dry, and she can hear his desperate pant beside her.

“Murphy,” he shouts, “Murphy, you have any more of those grenades?”

“Sarge,” somebody else calls, tossing him one.

He pulls the pin with his teeth, his eyes narrowed down into slits as he hurls one in front of him. It hits the floor with a soft metallic clink, rolling right in front of them.

It explodes in slow motion.

She watches the fire light up in front of the bodies, consuming the flesh before her eyes. Their screams are loud in her ears, their torment unbearable. 

Her back bows under the weight of their pain, her pace slowing nearly to a stop.

Behind her come the hoots of young American men, the noise of hands slamming hard against backs.

“Let the Krauts try and get us, huh, Sarge?”

“Come on,” the phantom Steve says. “We got a lot more ground to cover by morning.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

_is this who you would save?_

_is this the kind of person you would take with you from the underworld?_

_is this who you thought you once knew?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

She tries to think of an answer, a response, but there's nothing. She already knows.

 _he isn’t lying, diana_ , Steve’s voice says, heavy with emotion. 

 _you know as well as i do_ , Hades says. _the only thing i can show you is truth, amazon._

 _diana, i’m sorry_ , Steve whispers. _i’m so, so sorry._

 _but this is not what you expected, is it, amazon?,_ Hades asks. _this is not the kind of man you would have fight beside you_.

 _i know that i have to live with the kinds of things that i’ve done_ , Steve rattles from behind her. _me, just me. i don’t expect you to...live with it. i don’t expect you to forgive me for it. i know what i’ve done. i know, diana. just…please._

She shakes her head furiously, trying to keep their voices out of her ears. Trying to keep hold of the only thing that she knows can drive her forward: the thought of her mission, the last sight of his plane disappearing in the night sky over the hangar. He has sacrificed for his people, sacrificed himself for her. For all the dark that he has carried, that he has within him, she knows that he has good too.

She pushes on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The light shines bright into her face, blinding her as she stumbles her way up the next flight of stairs, down the length of the next corridor. Her breath fogs in the air, suddenly grown frigid and cold. Goosebumps prickle on her arms.

“Please!” a voice cries.

In front of her stands a young man, his back hunched, his arms raised in surrender. A pageboy cap is pulled down low over his forehead, hiding his eyes. The tweed of his jacket is ripped, the seams showing through. A stack of newspapers is held in his hand.

Beside her, shadow Steve stands, a revolver in his hands. Another dead body lies beside him at his feet, a clean bullet hole through the forehead.

“I won’t tell anyone,” the man says, dropping the stack of newspapers on the ground. “Please let me go. Please, I promise, I won’t say anything about this. Not to anyone. Not to anyone.” His voice is pleading, begging.

She forces herself to keep her gaze ahead, to avoid turning her head to try to see.

The shadow of the gun falls across her as he raises his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with emotion and restraint. “I’m sorry, you know I can’t let you go.”

The hammer of the gun cocks.

“Please,” the man cries, a sob rising in his throat. “Please, I beg you!”

The words barely leave his mouth when the gun fires. The body crumples down to the ground, and she can hear the noise of the gun being wiped down, Steve’s breathing ragged beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears rising in his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A sob chokes his words, and he gasps, his body hunching. 

 _this man?_ Hades whispers. _this is the one you would choose to risk yourself in the Underworld for? and you think you know him? them? the darkness in their hearts?_

“I have seen it, Polydegmon,” she says.

 _you think you have seen it,_ Hades answers. _but what have you seen of the person he is? of the things he has done? of the ruin he has brought?_

“I had my orders,” he says. “I was following my orders.”

_what do you know of the limits of their good?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

A plane drones, the propellers whipping in the air.

She can see inside the plane, just barely. Around them, the night is pitch black, beaded with the twinkle of stars. 

“You all right there, Jerry?” she hears.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve intones. “Let me know when we’re near the drop zone.”

“Try not to fall asleep back there.”

They speed through the air and when they get close, she can see their cargo: heavy shells tall as people, stacked in neat rows. 

“On my count!” Steve says, peering down from his seat in the plane. “3…”

The lights shine down, flickering to illuminate the town below. It is lit golden and white with light, an enormous shape of circles and squares, little dots of homes that cluster in large pools. 

“2!”

Her feet stumble as she trips up another set of stairs, watching the sky shimmer and lap around her feet.

 _they are sleeping, amazon_ , Hades whispers.

“1!”

The bombs whistle as they fall.

Like grotesque flowers, orange and red-hued petals lick up from below, opening into round bulbs in the sky. Beside her, Steve howls in triumph, and the RFC boy flies on.

“One down,” the boy says.

_look at what they’ve done._

The city below is aflame, burning furiously. Thick black clouds of smoke float up into the sky, and the screams and cries of terrified people carry in the silence of the night.

_look at what they are capable of._

“One down, four to go,” Steve says. 

She swallows, her mouth dry and sour, her chest heavy with emotion. 

 _diana,_ Steve whispers.

She turns her head and walks on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The air outside is crisp and sweet when she breaks past the gate, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out against her forehead. She gasps, sucking the taste of it down, the sobs breaking in jagged, uneven waves. She sobs, her body shaking with it, when she feels the gentle touch of a hand against her shoulder.

She whips around to face him, her mouth trembling as she looks at him, her hands already balled into fists.

His shoulders sag, his uniform dusted with ash, his eyes dark and empty. “Diana,” he says, his voice hollow.

He expects a blow from her. 

He expects her fist.

She reaches for him with her hands and pulls him into her, holding him as he buries his head in her shoulder and sobs. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his body trembling. “God, I’m so sorry.” 

Her arms tighten around his back, anchoring him to her. “Steve,” she breathes, the tears splashing hot against her cheeks. “You’re here, you’re here, Steve…”

“You shouldn’t have,” he gasps, “You shouldn’t have taken me out. I don’t…”

She presses a kiss to his forehead, to the tops of his cheeks. “It was him,” she says. “It was the Underworld.”

Steve jerks himself out of her grasp, looking at her with wild eyes. His hand roughly brushes across his mouth. “It wasn’t,” he says. “It wasn’t that place. It was me. It was _me_. What I did…”

She takes a step nearer, her hand brushing his.

“What I did,” he says, “Everything you saw in there was the truth.”

She takes his hand, her fingers closing tight around it. “What I saw in there _was_ the truth,” she says. “But the truth can change. Who you were on the airfield, who you were when I saw you fighting, that is a truth, too.”

He bows his head, stumbling towards her, falling to his knees. His head presses weakly against her thighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

Her hands brush over the top of his head. “It is not my place to forgive you,” she says. “It is not my place to make that choice. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

He turns his head, sucking in a ragged breath. “I don’t…” he whispers, so quietly she nearly misses it. “I don’t deserve this.”

She stoops to his height, pressing her head against his. “It’s not about deserve,” she says. Her hands settle on his shoulders, her touch gentle. “That is a lesson you once taught me.”

He leans his weight back against her. “Angel,” he whispers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They drive back to her apartment in silence. It has been months since she’s been here, and a faint coating of dust blankets over everything.

He eyes it all carefully, his eyebrows giving a slight twitch of surprise. “Where have you been?” he says.

“The front,” she says.

His eyebrows raise entirely. “The war,” he says. “It’s still going?”

“Yes,” she says. “Worse than the first.”

He winces. “We should go,” he says. “Isn’t that where you want to be?”

A smile flickers across her face. “I don’t even know if you’re hurt,” she says. “What I heard in the Underworld…”

He pats his chest. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine. I’m here.”

“I can’t lose you again,” she says, quietly. “You can stay here. I can fight.”

He kisses her, soft and gentle. “I have to do something,” he says. “I have to make it right.”

She wraps her arms around him, pulling him in for another kiss. “You are here,” she says. “Be here. With me.”

He squeezes her hand. “I want to be next to you when you fight,” he says. “I want to help you.”

She closes her eyes and sees the flash of artillery fire, the heavy noise of mortars rattling through the cannons. “All right,” she says.

He leans against her. “All right.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chief shouts when he sees him, wrapping him in a tight hug. “We saw the plane,” Chief says.

Steve exhales, gripping his friend’s shoulder. “God, you look exactly the same,” he says. “Where are the others?”

Chief exchanges a glance with Diana. 

“Etta and Sammy are in London,” Chief says. “Charlie’s in New York. It’s good to see you.”

Steve wrinkles his brows. “What’s Charlie doing out there? I thought he _hated_ it. I didn’t hear the end of it when he came to…”

“He has a family there now,” Diana says, with a proud smile. “A wife. Three babies.”

“Charlie! Kids!” Steve hoots. “Good for him.”

Diana squeezes his hand. “Wait until you see Etta’s children.”

“Etta's...!” Steve repeats.

“It’s been a while, cowboy,” Chief says. “World keeps spinning.”

Steve exhales, glancing at the two of them. “Guess it does,” he says. “And you’re still here.”

“Same place you are,” Chief says. “Just like old times.”

Steve claps a hand to his back with a laugh. “All right, so why don’t you fill me in on what we’re doing?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The war ends on a Monday night. A rainy weekend yielding to a signed peace treaty.

The thunder stops.

Light fills the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They go home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In London, the city is strewn with ticker tape and loose paper, crowds packed into every available street to scream and shout and celebrate. She pulls him along, his hand gripped in her tight grasp as she guides them through the streets towards a small house.

She bangs her hand quickly on the door, her excitement barely contained.

When it opens, he hears a sharp gasp he’d recognize anywhere. The woman who comes to embrace him is older, rounder, her hair streaked with white and gray, but still smelling of lilac, still as warm as he remembers.

“Rumors of your death...greatly exaggerated... _again_!” she shouts, slapping him hard in the arm.

He wraps his arms tightly around her and squeezes. “God, it is so good to see you again,” he says. 

She returns the weight of his embrace, sniffling. “I really thought…” she says. “I gave Diana your things. I figured you wouldn’t want them…”

“Thank you,” he says, softly. “For everything. For all of the years. For everything you’ve done for me. For Diana.”

She kisses him on both cheeks. “Don’t be stupid,” she says. “You think you can take care of anything without me?”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest. The sound is expansive, full, and he clings to the two of them as they lead him inside.

If nothing else, he thinks, he just wants to laugh again. Keep laughing. As long as he can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They return to her apartment. 

The click of the door shutting seems loud, and he shrugs out of his jacket, resting it against the arm of the sofa.

“I’m guessing I didn’t renew my lease,” he quips.

She levels a stare at him. “They gave me some of your things,” she says. “Some letters and notebooks. A few baseball cards.”

He pauses. “Which baseball cards?”

She wrinkles her brows. “I don’t know,” she says. “They’re here…somewhere. I kept them. And your father’s watch.”

“That’s yours now,” he says.

She toes off her shoes, walking barefoot into the kitchen to set a kettle on the stove. “It was your father’s, Steve,” she says. “Such gifts are not easily given.”

“No,” he says. “They aren’t.”

“It stopped,” she says. “The night of your death.”

She retreats back to the living room where he stands, glancing around at the decorated walls, the warm red and gold hues of the furnishings she has. 

“I would not want you to lose something of your father’s. Something meaningful.”

“Diana, I gave it to you because I…wanted you to have something. I wanted to give you something because I couldn’t give you everything that I wanted to. Because we wouldn’t have the time. You should keep it.”

“What would you give me?” she says.

He walks over to her and wraps her in his arms. “Nothing that would be worthy of you,” he says. 

She presses the length of her body against his, feeling his warmth.

“Records, maybe,” he says. “Letters. Poems. Jewelry.” 

Her head tilts up to look at him, her mouth hovering near his. Her hands trail slowly up his neck to take his face in her hands, her thumbs tracing every part of him. The feather of his eyelashes. The bridge of his nose. The apples of his cheeks. The slight scratch of stubble along his jaw that rasps against her palms. 

“I don’t write very many women poems,” he murmurs, quietly. “I’m a terrible rhymer.”

Her hands settle low on his chin, her thumbs brushing the curve of his lower lip.

She presses, just slightly, and feels his mouth returning the pressure. Kissing the pad of her thumb. 

The kettle whistles, and she startles, stepping away from him. “Tea?” she says, switching off the heat and removing the kettle.

His eyes follow her as she moves around the kitchen. “No,” he says.

Her stomach flutters.

“Thank you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry I don’t have much to eat,” she says. “I’ve been…”

“Diana,” he says.

She glances up at him as he approaches. 

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“You’ve just…had your second birthday,” she says.

His laugh is quiet.

“What if you’re still hurt? What if Polydegmon…what if I didn’t do everything that I needed to? What if something is wrong?”

He steps towards her, reaching for her hand and placing it on his chest. Through the fabric, she can feel the slight tremor of his heart, beating.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “You saved me. Again.”

She exhales, and his forehead leans against hers. “Steve,” she whispers.

His eyes are nearly gold when he meets her gaze. “Whatever you want from me,” he says. “If I can give it to you, it’s yours.”

She closes her eyes and nudges her mouth against his. “Just you,” she says, kissing him. His mouth is soft under hers, his lips trembling. 

When she pulls away, he is just…looking at her. “I never thought I would see you again,” he says.

She takes his hand in hers, leading him away from the kitchen. “Come,” she says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her bedroom is warm and sparely furnished. The lone bed sits in the center of the room, flanked by two nightstands, one with a lamp and one littered with books and pens. A sculpted bust sits in the far corner of the room near her closet.

“Athena,” he whispers.

She turns to him with a smile. “I give her my thanks with each day,” she says. Her head drops to settle against his chest. “And now I give her my thanks for you.”

She kisses him, another soft, chaste thing. Her hands link around his neck as she deepens the kiss, her lips soft beneath his, her tongue gently teasing at the seam of his mouth. 

He backs her up against the bedroom door, his tongue licking into her mouth to taste her. Her hands fist at his shirt, pulling it up to sneak her hands underneath.

He yelps when they skate across his bare skin, cold as they are. “You’ve got to warn a man,” he says, as she giggles.

He kisses her, savoring the soft moan that escapes her as he sucks at her bottom lip, his hands tangling in her hair. She surrounds him, the scent of her, the taste of her, the sight of her, and he wants to burn it into his head, wants to never forget what she looks like. Especially when she looks like this, impatiently gasping against his mouth, her hair mussed in his hands, her lips swollen from his kisses.

Her body feels like it’s alight, the heat of him burning into her, through her. When she glances up at his face, all she can see is his eyes swallowed by dark.

His mouth trails from hers to kiss a heated trail down the side of her neck, his tongue licking and sucking at her pulse point as she writhes beneath him, her hips canting up to meet his hardening length.

“Diana,” he whispers, as she undoes the buttons of his shirt and shoves it off of him. His undershirt follows quickly after, landing softly on the floor beside its partner. Her hands are hot when they settle on his chest, her mouth hotter as she licks along his collarbone, just tasting his skin. He’s already so hard he aches, and he pushes her back gently. “Hey.”

She bites her lip, glancing up at him as she shucks away her jacket and begins unbuttoning her dress. 

He swallows. “Diana,” he rasps. “We have all night.”

She shudders, her thighs clenching as she feels herself grow even wetter. “I missed you so much,” she says, peeling off her dress. "I've dreamed of this many times since Veld." He watches her, barely moving, as she strips off her brassiere and adds it to the growing pile of clothing on the floor. 

His hands come up to brush against the soft skin of her stomach, rising to span her ribs. "Me too," he says. "It doesn't seem like it's real, does it?"

She kisses him softly. “It’s okay,” she says.

He kisses her desperately, his hands sliding down to her hips. She gasps at the feeling of his rough hands, callused and broad, against the bare skin of her legs, groaning at the thought of his fingers pushing inside of her.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his mouth trailing along the length of her neck, his hands coming up to cup her breasts. The pad of his thumb is rough as he traces the dark bud of her nipple, and he grins at her shaky gasp as it tightens with arousal. Her hips rock against his, desperate for friction, for release, but he takes his time, carefully repeating his attention with the other breast.

Before she can pull him towards her, he drops to his knees, leaning in to press a kiss to her belly. The muscles of her legs brace her back against the door and she reaches for him, grasping only at his shoulders as he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, easing her apart.

His fingers press her through her panties, rubbing in slow circles. She hisses through her teeth, her head knocking back against the door as she moans his name, her hips jerking up to meet him. His hand settles on her hip, pushing her down. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, his breath hot against her core. 

She squirms, her breath coming in short pants, as he withdraws his fingers. “Steve,” she says, her hand sliding into his hair.

His thumb hooks her panties to the side and then he is licking her, the flat of his tongue swiping at her  in broad strokes. She sucks in a sharp breath, his hand helping to keep her hips from rising off the door as she rocks against his mouth. 

“You’re so ready,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along her sensitive flesh.

Her hand tightens in his hair as his tongue works against her cunt, her eyes squeezed shut as she rocks against his mouth. She gasps nonsense syllables, breathing his name as his tongue flicks against her sensitive clit, as he sinks two of his fingers deep inside of her and licks around them.

She grunts sharply as she comes, her muscles clenching tightly around his fingers as he licks her through the aftershocks. 

When he kisses her, she can taste the sharp tang of herself on her own tongue, and she reaches to pull him closer. She can feel the sinew of his muscles underneath her hands, the heat of his body radiating through her. Her teeth catch at his bottom lip, and he moans.

She pulls her mouth from his to bite at his neck, pushing him back towards the mattress. When his knees hit the bed, he stumbles into sitting, and she takes the opportunity to climb into his lap, pushing him to lie down against the bed.

He’s rock hard beneath her and she grinds down against his length, relishing in his moan as she does so. Her mouth glides over his as she rolls her hips again, moaning as his surge up to meet her. They spend a few moments like that, their bodies locked together, moving for its own pleasure.

“Sway,” she murmurs, and he laughs against her mouth.

“You’re killing me,” he says. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

She pulls her own panties down and kicks them off, her hands making quick work of his pants. As he kicks them off, she takes the moment to stand and just _look_ at him. To see all of the things she had never taken the time to notice, to study in such careful quarters. His skin is warm and golden, inflected with a pink blush, his lips swollen and pinker than she remembers. His body is marked with small cuts and scars, the muscles still as lean as she remembers.

She glances at his cock as she approaches the bed. Taking him into her hand, she works him gently, grinning as his hips surge up into her touch, his breathing ragged. 

“Diana,” he moans, “Please. Please stop. I don’t want to…” 

She removes her hand, crawling over his body as she leans down and kisses him. His hands settle on her arms, squeezing them gently. “Welcome home,” she murmurs, brushing her mouth against his again.

She settles herself on his lap, dragging herself over the hard length and savoring his low groan. Reaching to take him in hand, she teases herself with the head of his cock, nudging it back and forth over her entrance. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he swears, and she feels a new flush of heat. 

She raises her hips to take him, carefully sinking down over him inch by inch. She moves carefully, biting down hard on her lip as she savors the feeling of him filling her. When he’s buried inside of her, she stills for a moment, letting herself adjust to his fullness.

“Fuck,” he says, the vowel sounds drawn long and extended. “Diana.” 

She begins to move, easing him nearly all the way out before sinking back down again. Her hands bracing against the mattress, she leans down, her breasts brushing against his chest as she rolls her hips. He meets her rhythm, countering her movements, and burying himself deeper inside of her. 

“You feel so good,” he says, his head arching back against the mattress.

She can feel how close she is already, and she leans back, her pace beginning to speed up. She has never had any trouble hunting for partners to answer her need, but she had forgotten the way that this could feel with him, the way he seems to surround her, complement her every movement with one of his own. The way it feels like the world slows down, like they are the only two people in all of its vast space.

Her hips move reflexively, knocking roughly against his as she gets close. She arches her neck, her mouth caught in a silent gasp as she feels the tension coil low in her belly. “Steve,” she moans, quietly. 

His hand rises to her breasts, thumbing roughly at her nipples, before settling down against her hips to anchor her. She leans down, her mouth brushing against his, desperate to taste him, as he holds her hips and rocks into her, licking into her mouth.

“Are you close?” he asks. 

She struggles to keep her eyes open, to keep his face in her view. He reaches down between them, thumbing at her sensitive flesh and her hips slam down against his, her walls tightening around him as she breaks. She hisses a cry, her head sagging to rest against his collarbone, and he licks at her neck, her shoulder, his hips driving him to finishing.

He sucks in a gasp as he spends himself inside of her, murmuring her name. 

She holds him against her, her body damp with sweat as he gasps, coming down from his climax.

“Hi,” she says.

He blinks up at her through his eyelashes. “Hi,” he replies.

She kisses him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She sleeps curled around him, her leg thrown over his, her arms wrapped around his body. 

She doesn’t dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wakes only when the morning’s light has splintered into shards, trickled in patterns over her bedspread. He surrounds her, his arms wrapped around her middle, his legs tangled with hers. She exhales, turning her gaze towards the ceiling. 

_i give thanks to the gods. for his life._

When he stirs, she stretches her back against him, feeling him already half-hard against her leg. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs against her neck.

His arms stay linked around her, his mouth hot against her neck as he shifts his hips against hers. It’s easier than she expects, lying in bed with him, early mornings with him. He enters her quickly, his movements languid and lazy as he drives inside of her. She’s still aching from last night, but her body is all pleasure and sensation as he moves inside of her.

His fingers are clumsy and slow as they flutter over her sensitive flesh, but she still comes with a soft sigh, her body curling in his grasp.

After, she relishes the feeling of him inside of her, slowly softening before he pulls out.

“Good morning to you, too,” she says, finally.

He huffs a laugh, rolling to lie on his back and pulling her to rest on top of him. “I love you,” he says.

Her lips quirk into a smile. “I know.”

“I thought I’d tell you again, anyway,” he says.

She rests her head against his chest and closes her eyes. “I think I love you too,” she whispers. “Steve Trevor.”

His hand tangles in her hair, brushing it back from her head in slow, calming strokes. “What do you want for breakfast?”

She hums, her eyes still shut. “I don’t know,” she says. “What do you usually eat?”

He snorts a scoff. “You’ve had breakfast before,” he says. “Without me.”

She hums again, this time in agreement. “I have,” she says. “But now I’m having breakfast with _you_.”

His smile is a small, sly curve. “All right,” he says. “How’s coffee sound?”

“Vital,” she says.

He laughs. “Vital, huh? And eggs?”

She shrugs. “Whatever you like.”

 

 

 

 

 

It begins.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have taken liberties with Greek mythology and (what little) comics canon (I know), including, but not limited to, Amazonian funereal practices, the relationship between the Greek gods and Diana/the Amazons, Steve Trevor's (childhood) backstory, Diana's immortality, as well as fashion (for the sake of easy sex), military strategy and technology, and probably chronology/actual historical facts (including, but not limited to, the amount secretaries got paid back then. I highballed it because secretaries, then and now, should be paid more). Hopefully they are all consistent in the text itself. I tried my best.
> 
> This references the fanon that Chief is actually himself a demi-god.
> 
> I tried not to make WWII seem trivial while also wanting to include its chronology within the scope of the plot. While there are vague references to the war conflict, there is no explicit reference to or treatment of the Holocaust or Nazism in an attempt to avoid trivializing it. I'm not sure if that tactic was the most appropriate, and I apologise for any mishandling/minimizing of the event.
> 
> The bit about Diana sacrificing her immortality comes from one of the comics I _have_ read, although it's somewhat ambiguous in the movie.
> 
> According to a website that came up when I Googled, the (ancient?) Greeks were very aware of Hades and tried not to disrespect him (or his kingdom), so they rarely referenced him by name. One of the alternate names they gave him, according to this website, was Polydegmon, which Wiki says means "who receives many."
> 
> In my head, Steve Trevor is from NYC. This may not be true. The song he plays her is _plaisir d'amour_. 
> 
> In my head, Steve Trevor is also now immortal, at least aging-wise? Because death has a double jeopardy clause or something. But you don't have to believe that, if you don't want to.


End file.
